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BOOKS  BY  MARY  R.  S.  ANDREWS 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


The  Militants.    Illustrated 81.50 

Bob  and  the  Guides.    Illustrated  .    .    .  $1. 50 

The  Perfect  Tribute.   With  Frontispiece  $0.50 

Vive  1'Empereur.    Illustrated     ....  $1.00 


THE   PERFECT   TRIBUTE 


THE 

PERFECT   TRIBUTE 

BY 

Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1908 


Copyright,  1906,  by  Charles  Soribner's  Sons 


First  Edition  printed  August,  1906 ; 
reprinted  in  September,  October,  1906  ; 
February,  March,  June,  July,  Octo 
ber,  twice  in  December,  1907 ;  June, 
September,  December,  1908. 

Illustrated  Edition  published  in 
November,  1908. 


A6 
THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 

ON  the  morning  of  November 
18,  1863,  a  special  train  drew 
out  from  Washington,  car 
rying  a  distinguished  company.  The 
presence  with  them  of  the  Marine 
Band  from  the  Navy  Yard  spoke  a 
public  occasion  to  come,  and  among 
the  travellers  there  were  those  who 
might  be  gathered  only  for  an  oc 
casion  of  importance.  There  were 
judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States;  there  were  heads  of 
departments ;  the  general  -  in  -  chief 
of  the  army  and  his  staff ;  members  of 
the  cabinet.  In  their  midst,  as  they 
stood  about  the  car  before  settling  for 
the  journey,  towered  a  man  sad,  pre- 
[1] 


>  1  *  /^>  f  •»  M 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
occupied,  unassuming;  a  man  awk 
ward  and  ill-dressed;  a  man,  as  he 
leaned  slouchingly  against  the  wall, 
of  no  grace  of  look  or  manner,  in 
whose  haggard  face  seemed  to  be  the 
suffering  of  the  sins  of  the  world. 
Abraham  Lincoln,  President  of  the 
United  States,  journeyed  with  his 
party  to  assist  at  the  consecration,  the 
next  day,  of  the  national  cemetery 
at  Gettysburg.  The  quiet  November 
landscape  slipped  past  the  rattling 
train,  and  the  President's  deep-set 
eyes  stared  out  at  it  gravely,  a  bit 
listlessly.  From  time  to  time  he 
talked  with  those  who  were  about 
him;  from  time  to  time  there  were 
flashes  of  that  quaint  wit  which  is 
linked,  as  his  greatness,  with  his 
name,  but  his  mind  was  to-day  dispir 
ited,  unhopeful.  The  weight  on  his 
[2] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
shoulders  seemed  pressing  more  heav 
ily  than  he  had  courage  to  press  back 
against  it,  the  responsibility  of  one 
almost  a  dictator  in  a  wide,  war-torn 
country  came  near  to  crushing,  at 
times,  the  mere  human  soul  and  body. 
There  was,  moreover,  a  speech  to  be 
made  to-morrow  to  thousands  who 
would  expect  their  President  to  say 
something  to  them  worth  the  listen 
ing  of  a  people  who  were  making  his 
tory;  something  brilliant,  eloquent, 
strong.  The  melancholy  gaze  glit 
tered  with  a  grim  smile.  He — Abra 
ham  Lincoln — the  lad  bred  in  a  cabin, 
tutored  in  rough  schools  here  and 
there,  fighting  for,  snatching  at 
crumbs  of  learning  that  fell  from  rich 
tables,  struggling  to  a  hard  knowl 
edge  which  well  knew  its  own  limita 
tions — it  was  he  of  whom  this  was 
[3] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
expected.  He  glanced  across  the  car. 
Edward  Everett  sat  there,  the  orator 
of  the  following  day,  the  finished 
gentleman,  the  careful  student,  the 
heir  of  traditions  of  learning  and. 
breeding,  of  scholarly  instincts  and 
resources.  The  self-made  President 
gazed  at  him  wistfully.  From  hirr 
the  people  might  expect  and  would 
get  a  balanced  and  polished  oration. 
For  that  end  he  had  been  born,  and 
inheritance  and  opportunity  and  in 
clination  had  worked  together  for 
that  end's  perfection.  While  Lincoln 
had  wrested  from  a  scanty  schooling 
a  command  of  English  clear  and  for 
cible  always,  but,  he  feared,  rough- 
hewn,  lacking,  he  feared,  in  finish 
and  in  breadth- — of  what  use  was  it 
for  such  a  one  to  try  to  fashion  a 
speech  fit  to  take  a  place  by  the  side 
[4] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
of  Everett's  silver  sentences?  He 
sighed.  Yet  the  people  had  a  right 
to  the  best  he  could  give,  and  he  would 
give  them  his  best;  at  least  he  could 
see  to  it  that  the  words  were  real  and 
were  short;  at  least  he  would  not, 
so,  exhaust  their  patience.  And  the 
work  might  as  well  be  done  now  in 
the  leisure  of  the  journey.  He  put  a 
hand,  big,  powerful,  labor-knotted, 
into  first  one  sagging  pocket  and  then 
another,  in  search  of  a  pencil,  and 
drew  out  one  broken  across  the  end. 
He  glanced  about  inquiringly — there 
was  nothing  to  write  upon.  Across 
the  car  the  Secretary  of  State  had 
just  opened  a  package  of  books  and 
their  wrapping  of  brown  paper  lay 
on  the  floor,  torn  carelessly  in  a  zig 
zag.  The  President  stretched  a  long 
arm. 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
"Mr.   Seward,  may  I  have  this  to 
do  a  little  writing?"  he  asked,  and  the 
Secretary  protested,  insisting  on  find 
ing  better  material. 

But  Lincoln,  with  few  words,  had 
his  way,  and  soon  the  untidy  stump 
of  a  pencil  was  at  work  and  the  great 
head,  the  deep-lined  face,  bent  over 
Seward's  bit  of  brown  paper,  the 
whole  man  absorbed  in  his  task. 

Earnestly,  with  that  "capacity  for 
taking  infinite  pains"  which  has  been 
defined  as  genius,  he  labored  as  the 
hours  flew,  building  together  close- 
fitted  word  on  word,  sentence  on  sen 
tence.  As  the  sculptor  must  dream 
the  statue  prisoned  in  the  marble,  as 
the  artist  must  dream  the  picture  to 
come  from  the  brilliant  unmeaning 
of  his  palette,  as  the  musician  dreams 
a  song,  so  he  who  writes  must  have  a 
[6] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
vision  of  his  finished  work  before  he 
touches,  to  begin  it,  a  medium  more 
elastic,  more  vivid,  more  powerful 
than  any  other — words — prismatic 
bits  of  humanity,  old  as  the  Pharaohs, 
new  as  the  Arabs  of  the  street, 
broken,  sparkling,  alive,  from  the 
age-long  life  of  the  race.  Abraham 
Lincoln,  with  the  clear  thought  in  his 
mind  of  what  he  would  say,  found 
the  sentences  that  came  to  him  color 
less,  wooden.  A  wonder  flashed  over 
him  once  or  twice  of  Everett's  skill 
with  these  symbols  which,  it  seemed  to 
him,  were  to  the  Bostonian  akey -board 
facile  to  make  music,  to  Lincoln  tools 
to  do  his  labor.  He  put  the  idea  aside, 
for  it  hindered  him.  As  he  found  the 
sword  fitted  to  his  hand  he  must  fight 
with  it;  it  might  be  that  he,  as  well 
as  Everett,  could  say  that  which 

[7] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
should  go  straight  from  him  to  his 
people,  to  the  nation  who  struggled 
at  his  back  towards  a  goal.  At  least 
each  syllable  he  said  should  be  chis 
elled  from  the  rock  of  his  sincerity. 
So  he  cut  here  and  there  an  adjective, 
here  and  there  a  phrase,  baring  the 
heart  of  his  thought,  leaving  no  rib 
bon  or  flower  of  rhetoric  to  flutter  in 
the  eyes  of  those  with  whom  he  would 
be  utterly  honest.  And  when  he  had 
done  he  read  the  speech  and  dropped 
it  from  his  hand  to  the  floor  and 
stared  again  from  the  window.  It  was 
the  best  he  could  do,  and  it  was  a  fail 
ure.  So,  with  the  pang  of  the  work 
man  who  believes  his  work  done 
wrong,  he  lifted  and  folded  the  torn 
bit  of  paper  and  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  put  aside  the  thought  of  it,  as 
of  a  bad  thing  which  he  might  not 

[8] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
better,  and  turned  and  talked  cheer 
fully  with  his  friends. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
the  day  following,  on  November  19, 
1863,  a  vast,  silent  multitude  bil 
lowed,  like  waves  of  the  sea,  over 
what  had  been  not  long  before  the 
battle-field  of  Gettysburg.  There 
were  wounded  soldiers  there  who  had 
beaten  their  way  four  months  before 
through  a  singing  fire  across  these 
quiet  fields,  who  had  seen  the  men  die 
who  were  buried  here;  there  were 
troops,  grave  and  responsible,  who 
must  soon  go  again  into  battle;  there 
were  the  rank  and  file  of  an  every 
day  American  gathering  in  surging 
thousands;  and  above  them  all,  on 
the  open-air  platform,  there  were  the 
leaders  of  the  land,  the  pilots  who  to 
day  lifted  a  hand  from  the  wheel  of 
[9] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
the  ship  of  state  to  salute  the  memory 
of  those  gone  down  in  the  storm. 
Most  of  the  men  in  that  group  of 
honor  are  now  passed  over  to  the  ma 
jority,  but  their  names  are  not  dead 
in  American  history — great  ghosts 
who  walk  still  in  the  annals  of  their 
country,  their  flesh-and-blood  faces 
were  turned  attentively  that  bright, 
still  November  afternoon  towards  the 
orator  of  the  day,  whose  voice  held 
the  audience. 

For  two  hours  Everett  spoke  and 
the  throng  listened  untired,  fasci 
nated  by  the  dignity  of  his  high-bred 
look  and  manner  almost  as  much, 
perhaps,  as  by  the  speech  which  has 
taken  a  place  in  literature.  As  he  had 
been  expected  to  speak  he  spoke,  of 
the  great  battle,  of  the  causes  of  the 
war,  of  the  results  to  come  after.  It 

[101 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
was  an  oration  which  missed  no  shade 
of  expression,  no  reach  of  grasp.  Yet 
there  were  those  in  the  multitude, 
sympathetic  to  a  unit  as  it  was  with 
the  Northern  cause,  who  grew  restless 
when  this  man  who  had  been  crowned 
with  so  thick  a  laurel  wreath  by 
Americans  spoke  of  Americans  as 
rebels,  of  a  cause  for  which  honest 
Americans  were  giving  their  lives  as 
a  crime.  The  days  were  war  days,  and 
men's  passions  were  inflamed,  yet 
there  were  men  who  listened  to  Ed 
ward  Everett  who  believed  that  his 
great  speech  would  have  been  greater 
unenforced  with  bitterness. 

As  the  clear,  cultivated  voice  fell 
into  silence,  the  mass  of  people  burst 
into  a  long  storm  of  applause,  for 
they  knew  that  they  had  heard  an 
oration  which  was  an  event.  They 
[HI 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
clapped  and  cheered  him  again  and 
again  and  again,  as  good  citizens  ac 
claim  a  man  worthy  of  honor  whom 
they  have  delighted  to  honor.  At  last, 
as  the  ex-Governor  of  Massachusetts, 
the  ex-ambassador  to  England,  the 
ex- Secretary  of  State,  the  ex- Senator 
of  the  United  States — handsome,  dis 
tinguished,  graceful,  sure  of  voice 
and  of  movement — took  his  seat,  a 
tall,  gaunt  figure  detached  itself 
from  the  group  on  the  platform  and 
slouched  slowly  across  the  open  space 
and  stood  facing  the  audience.  A  stir 
and  a  whisper  brushed  over  the  field 
of  humanity,  as  if  a  breeze  had  rip 
pled  a  monstrous  bed  of  poppies. 
This  was  the  President.  A  quivering 
silence  settled  down  and  every  eye 
was  wide  to  watch  this  strange,  dis 
appointing  appearance,  every  ear 

[12] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
alert  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  his 
voice.  Suddenly  the  voice  came,  in  a 
queer,  squeaking  falsetto.  The  effect 
on  the  audience  was  irrepressible, 
ghastly.  After  Everett's  deep  tones, 
after  the  strain  of  expectancy,  this 
extraordinary,  gaunt  apparition,  this 
high,  thin  sound  from  the  huge  body, 
were  too  much  for  the  American 
crowd's  sense  of  humor,  always 
stronger  than  its  sense  of  reverence. 
A  suppressed  yet  unmistakable  titter 
caught  the  throng,  ran  through  it, 
and  wras  gone.  Yet  no  one  who  knew 
the  President's  face  could  doubt  that 
he  had  heard  it  and  had  understood. 
Calmly  enough,  after  a  pause  almost 
too  slight  to  be  recognized,  he  went 
on,  and  in  a  dozen  words  his  tones  had 
gathered  volume,  he  had  come  to  his 
power  and  dignity.  There  was  no 

[13] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
smile  now  on  any  face  of  those  who 
listened.  People  stopped  breathing 
rather,  as  if  they  feared  to  miss  an 
inflection.  A  loose-hung  figure,  six 
feet  four  inches  high,  he  towered 
above  them,  conscious  of  and  quietly 
ignoring  the  bad  first  impression,  un 
conscious  of  a  charm  of  personality 
which  reversed  that  impression  within 
a  sentence.  That  these  were  his  people 
was  his  only  thought.  He  had  some 
thing  to  say  to  them ;  what  did  it  mat 
ter  about  him  or  his  voice? 

"Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago," 
spoke  the  President,  "our  fathers 
brought  forth  on  this  continent  a  new 
nation,  conceived  in  liberty  and  dedi 
cated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men 
are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  en 
gaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing 
whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation,  so 
[14] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle 
field  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to 
dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  a  final  rest 
ing-place  for  those  who  here  gave 
their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live. 
It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
that  we  should  do  this. 

"But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot 
dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we 
cannot  hallow,  this  ground.  The 
brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who 
struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it 
far  above  our  poor  power  to  add  or 
to  detract.  The  world  will  little  note 
nor  long  remember  what  we  say  here, 
but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did 
here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather, 
to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished 
work  which  they  who  fought  here 
have  thus  far  so  nobly  advanced.  It 

[15] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated 
to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us 
— that  from  these  honored  dead  we 
take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause 
for  which  they  here  gave  the  last  full 
measure  of  devotion — that  we  here 
highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall 
not  have  died  in  vain,  that  this  na 
tion,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new 
birth  of  freedom,  and  that  govern 
ment  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for 
the  people  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth." 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  silent, 
vast  assembly.  The  President's  large 
figure  stood  before  them,  at  first  in 
spired,  glorified  with  the  thrill  and 
swing  of  his  words,  lapsing  slowly  in 
the  stillness  into  lax,  ungraceful  lines. 
He  stared  at  them  a  moment  with 
sad  eyes  full  of  gentleness,  of  resig- 

[10] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
nation,  and  in  the  deep  quiet  they 
stared  at  him.  Not  a  hand  was  lifted 
in  applause.  Slowly  the  big,  awkward 
man  slouched  back  across  the  plat 
form  and  sank  into  his  seat,  and  yet 
there  was  no  sound  of  approval,  of 
recognition  from  the  audience;  only 
a  long  sigh  ran  like  a  ripple  on  an 
ocean  through  rank  after  rank.  In 
Lincoln's  heart  a  throb  of  pain  an 
swered  it.  His  speech  had  been,  as  he 
feared  it  would  be,  a  failure.  As  he 
gazed  steadily  at  these  his  country 
men  who  would  not  give  him  even  a 
little  perfunctory  applause  for  his 
best  effort,  he  knew  that  the  disap 
pointment  of  it  cut  into  his  soul.  And 
then  he  was  aware  that  there  was 
music,  the  choir  was  singing  a  dirge ; 
his  part  was  done,  and  his  part  had 
failed. 

[17] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 

When  the  ceremonies  were  over 
Everett  at  once  found  the  President. 
"Mr.  President,"  he  began,  "your 
speech—  but  Lincoln  had  -inter 
rupted,  flashing  a  kindly  smile  down 
at  him,  laying  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"We'll  manage  not  to  talk  about  my 
speech,  Mr.  Everett,"  he  said.  "This 
isn't  the  first  time  I've  felt  that  my 
dignity  ought  not  to  permit  me  to  be 
a  public  speaker." 

He  went  on  in  a  few  cordial  sen 
tences  to  pay  tribute  to  the  orator 
of  the  occasion.  Everett  listened 
thoughtfully  and  when  the  chief  had 
done,  "Mr.  President,"  he  said  sim 
ply,  "I  should  be  glad  if  I  could  flat 
ter  myself  that  I  came  as  near  the 
central  idea  of  the  occasion  in  two 
hours  as  you  did  in  two  minutes." 

But   Lincoln    shook   his   head   and 

[18] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
laughed   and  turned   to   speak   to   a 
newcomer  with  no  change  of  opinion 
—he  was  apt  to  trust  his  own  judg 
ments. 

The  special  train  which  left  Gettys 
burg  immediately  after  the  solemni 
ties  on  the  battle-field  cemetery 
brought  the  President's  party  into 
Washington  during  the  night.  There 
was  no  rest  for  the  man  at  the  wheel 
of  the  nation  next  day,  but  rather 
added  work  until,  at  about  four  in 
the  afternoon,  he  felt  sorely  the  need 
of  air  and  went  out  from  the  White 
House  alone,  for  a  walk.  His  mind 
still  ran  on  the  events  of  the  day 
before — the  impressive,  quiet  multi 
tude,  the  serene  sky  of  November 
arched,  in  the  hushed  interregnum  of 
the  year,  between  the  joy  of  summer 
and  the  war  of  winter,  over  those  who 

[19] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
had  gone  from  earthly  war  to  heav 
enly  joy.  The  picture  was  deeply  en 
graved  in  his  memory;  it  haunted 
him.  And  with  it  came  a  soreness,  a 
discomfort  of  mind  which  had  haunted 
him  as  well  in  the  hours  between— 
the  chagrin  of  the  failure  of  his 
speech.  During  the  day  he  had  gently 
but  decisively  put  aside  all  reference 
to  it  from  those  about  him;  he  had 
glanced  at  the  head-lines  in  the  news 
papers  with  a  sarcastic  smile;  the 
Chief  Executive  must  be  flattered, 
of  course;  newspaper  notices  meant 
nothing.  He  knew  well  that  he  had 
made  many  successful  speeches;  no 
man  of  his  shrewdness  could  be  igno 
rant  that  again  and  again  he  had  car 
ried  an  audience  by  storm ;  yet  he  had 
no  high  idea  of  his  own  speech- 
making,  and  yesterday's  affair  had 

[20] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
shaken  his  confidence  more.  He  re 
membered  sadly  that,  even  for  the 
President,  no  hand,  no  voice  had  been 
lifted  in  applause. 

"It  must  have  been  pretty  poor 
stuff,"  he  said  half  aloud;  "yet  I 
thought  it  was  a  fair  little  composi 
tion.  I  meant  to  do  well  by  them." 

His  long  strides  had  carried  him 
into  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  and  sud 
denly,  at  a  corner,  from  behind  a 
hedge,  a  young  boy  of  fifteen  years 
or  so  came  rushing  toward  him  and 
tripped  and  stumbled  against  him, 
and  Lincoln  kept  him  from  falling 
with  a  quick,  vigorous  arm.  The  lad 
righted  himself  and  tossed  back  his 
thick,  light  hair  and  stared  haugh 
tily,  and  the  President,  regarding 
him,  saw  that  his  blue  eyes  were  blind 
with  tears. 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
"Do  you  want  all  of  the  public 
highway?  Can't  a  gentleman  from 
the  South  even  walk  in  the  streets 
without — without—  '  and  the  broken 
sentence  ended  in  a  sob. 

The  anger  and  the  insolence  of  the 
lad  were  nothing  to  the  man  who  tow 
ered  above  him — to  that  broad  mind 
this  was  but  a  child  in  trouble.  "My. 
boy,  the  fellow  that's  interfering  with 
your  walking  is  down  inside  of  you," 
he  said  gently,  and  with  that  the  as 
tonished  youngster  opened  his  wet 
eyes  wide  and  laughed — a  choking, 
childish  laugh  that  pulled  at  the  older 
man's  heart-strings.  "That's  better, 
sonny,"  he  said,  and  patted  the  slim 
shoulder.  "Now  tell  me  what's  wrong 
with  the  world.  Maybe  I  might  help 
straighten  it." 
"Wrong,  wrong!"  the  child  raved; 

[22] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
"everything's  wrong,"  and  launched 
into  a  mad  tirade  against  the  govern 
ment  from  the  President  down. 

Lincoln  listened  patiently,  and  when 
the  lad  paused  for  breath,  "Go 
ahead,"  he  said  good-naturedly. 
"Every  little  helps." 

With  that  the  youngster  was  silent 
and  drew  himself  up  with  stiff  dig 
nity,  offended  yet  fascinated;  un 
able  to  tear  himself  away  from  this 
strange  giant  who  was  so  insultingly 
kind  under  his  abuse,  who  yet  inspired 
him  with  such  a  sense  of  trust  and 
of  hope. 

"I  want  a  lawyer,"  he  said  impul 
sively,  looking  up  anxiously  into 
the  deep-lined  face  inches  above  him. 
"I  don't  know  where  to  find  a  lawyer 
in  this  horrible  city,  and  I  must  have 
one — I  can't  wait — it  may  be  too  late 

[23] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
—I  want  a  lawyer  now"  and  once 
more  he  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement. 

"What  do  you  tvant  with  a  lawyer?" 
Again  the  calm ,  friendly  tone  quieted 
him. 

"I  want  him  to  draw  a  will.  My 
brother  is—  '  he  caught  his  breath 
with  a  gasp  in  a  desperate  effort  for 
self-control.  "They  say  he's — dying." 
He  finished  the  sentence  with  a  quiver 
in  his  voice,  and  the  brave  front  and 
the  trembling,  childish  tone  went  to 
the  man's  heart.  "I  don't  believe  it — 
he  can't  be  dying,"  the  boy  talked 
on,  gathering  courage.  "But  any 
way,  he  wants  to  make  a  will,  and — 
and  I  reckon — it  may  be  that  he — he 
must." 

"I  see,"  the  other  answered  gravely, 
and  the  young,  torn  soul  felt  an  un 
reasoning  confidence  that  he  had 

[24] 


THE   PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
found    a    friend.    "Where    is    your 
brother?" 

"He's  in  the  prison  hospital  there — 
in  that  big  building,"  he  pointed 
down  the  street.  "He's  captain  in  our 
army — in  the  Confederate  army.  He 
was  wounded  at  Gettysburg." 

"Oh!"  The  deep-set  eyes  gazed 
down  at  the  fresh  face,  its  muscles 
straining  under  grief  and  responsi 
bility,  with  the  gentlest,  most  father 
ly  pity.  "I  think  I  can  manage  your 
job,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "I  used  to 
practise  law  in  a  small  way  myself, 
and  I'll  be  glad  to  draw  the  will  for 


you." 


The  young  fellow  had  whirled  him 
around  before  he  had  finished  the  sen 
tence.  "Come,"  he  said.  "Don't  waste 
time  talking — why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before?"  and  then  he  glanced  up.  He 

[25] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
saw  the  ill-fitting  clothes,  the  crag- 
like,  rough-modelled  head,  the  awk 
ward  carriage  of  the  man ;  he  was  too 
young  to  know  1hat  what  he  felt  be 
yond  these  was  greatness.  There  was 
a  tone  of  patronage  in  his  voice  and 
in  the  cock  of  his  aristocratic  young 
head  as  he  spoke.  "We  can  pay  you, 
you  know — we're  not  paupers."  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Lincoln's  face  to 
watch  the  impression  as  he  added, 
"My  brother  is  Carter  Hampton 
Blair,  of  Georgia.  I'm  Warrington 
Blair.  The  Hampton  Court  Blairs, 
you  know." 

"Oh!"  said  the  President. 

The  lad  went  on: 

"It  would  have  been  all  right  if  Nel 
lie  hadn't  left  Washington  to-day— 
my  sister,   Miss   Eleanor   Hampton 
Blair.  Carter  was  better  this  morning, 

[26] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
and  so  she  went  with  the  Sena 
tor.  She's  secretary  to  Senator  War- 
rington,  you  know.  He's  on  the  Yan 
kee  side" — the  tone  was  full  of  con 
tempt — "but  yet  he's  our  cousin,  and 
when  he  offered  Nellie  the  position 
she  would  take  it  in  spite  of  Carter 
and  me.  We  were  so  poor" — the  lad's 
pride  was  off  its  guard  for  the  mo 
ment,  melted  in  the  soothing  trust 
wdth  which  this  stranger  thrilled  his 
soul.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to  talk, 
and  the  large  hand  which  rested  on 
his  shoulder  as  they  walked  seemed  an 
assurance  that  his  words  were  accord 
ed  respect  and  understanding.  "Of 
course,  if  Nellie  had  been  here  she 
would  have  known  how  to  get  a  law 
yer,  but  Carter  had  a  bad  turn  half 
an  hour  ago,  and  the  doctor  said  he 
might  get  better  or  he  might  die 

[27] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
any  minute,  and  Carter  remembered 
about  the  money,  and  got  so  excited 
that  they  said  it  was  hurting  him,  so 
I  said  I'd  get  a  lawyer,  and  I  rushed 
out,  and  the  first  thing  I  ran  against 
you.  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  very  polite." 
The  smile  on  the  gaunt  face  above 
him  was  all  the  answer  he  needed. 
"I'm  sorry.  I  apologize.  It  certainly 
was  good  of  you  to  come  right  back 
with  me."  The  child's  manner  was 
full  of  the  assured  graciousness  of  a 
high-born  gentleman;  there  was  a 
lovable  quality  in  his  very  patronage, 
and  the  suffering  arid  the  sweetness 
and  the  pride  combined  held  Lincoln 
by  his  sense  of  humor  as  well  as  by  his 
soft  heart.  "You  sha'n't  lose  anything 
by  it,"  the  youngster  went  on.  "We 
may  be  poor,  but  we  have  more  than 
plenty  to  pay  you,  I'm  sure.  Nellie 

[28] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
has  some  jewels,  you  see — oh,  I  think 
several  things  yet.  Is  it  very  expen 
sive  to  draw  a  will?"  he  asked  wist- 
fully. 

"No,  sonny;  it's  one  of  the  cheap 
est  things  a  man  can  do,"  was  the  hur 
ried  answer,  and  the  child's  tone 
showed  a  lighter  heart. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  for,  of  course, 
Carter  wants  to  leave — to  leave  as 
much  as  he  can.  You  see,  that's  what 
the  will  is  about — Carter  is  engaged 
to  marry  Miss  Sally  Max  field,  and 
they  would  have  been  married  now  if 
he  hadn't  been  wounded  and  taken 
prisoner.  So,  of  course,  like  any  gen 
tleman  that's  engaged,  he  wants  to 
give  her  everything  that  he  has. 
Hampton  Court  has  to  come  to  me 
after  Carter,  but  there's  some  money 
—quite  a  lot — only  we  can't  get  it 

[29] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
now  And  that  ought  to  go  to  Car 
ter's  wife,  which  is  what  she  is — just 
about — and  if  he  doesn't  make  a  will 
it  won't.  It  will  come  to  Nellie  and 
me  if — if  anything  should  happen  to 
Carter." 

"So  you're  worrying  for  fear  you'll 
inherit  some  money?"  Lincoln  asked 
meditatively. 

"Of  course,"  the  boy  threw  back  im 
patiently.  "Of  course,  it  would  be  a 
shame  if  it  came  to  Nellie  and  me,  for 
we  couldn't  ever  make  her  take  it.  We 
don't  need  it — I  can  look  after  Nel 
lie  and  myself,"  he  said  proudly,  with 
a  quick,  tossing  motion  of  his  fair 
head  that  was  like  the  motion  of  a 
spirited,  thoroughbred  horse.  They 
had  arrived  at  the  prison.  "I  can  get 
you  through  all  right.  They  all  know 
me  here,"  he  spoke  over  his  shoulder 

[30] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
reassuringly  to  the  President  with  a 
friendly  glance.  Dashing  down  the 
corridors  in  front,  he  did  not  see  the 
guards  salute  the  tall  figure  which 
followed  him;  too  preoccupied  to 
wonder  at  the  ease  of  their  entrance, 
he  flew  along  through  the  big  build 
ing,  and  behind  him  in  large  strides 
came  his  friend. 

A  young  man — almost  a  boy,  too— 
of  twenty-three  or  twenty-four,  his 
handsome  face  a  white  shadow,  lay 
propped  against  the  pillows,  watch 
ing  the  door  eagerly  as  they  entered. 

"Good  boy,  Warry,"  he  greeted  the 
little  fellow;  "y°u've  got  me  a  law 
yer,"  and  the  pale  features  lighted 
with  a  smile  of  such  radiance  as 
seemed  incongruous  in  this  gruesome 
place.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
man  who  swung  toward  him,  loom- 

[31] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
ing  mountainous  behind  his  brother's 
slight  figure.  "Thank  you  for  com 
ing,"  he  said  cordially,  and  in  his  tone 
was  the  same  air  of  a  grand  seigneur 
as  in  the  lad's.  Suddenly  a  spasm  of 
pain  caught  him,  his  head  fell  into 
the  pillows,  his  muscles  twisted,  his 
arm  about  the  neck  of  the  kneeling 
boy  tightened  convulsively.  Yet  while 
the  agony  still  held  him  he  was  smil 
ing  again  with  gay  courage.  "It 
nearly  blew  me  away,"  he  whispered, 
his  voice  shaking,  but  his  eyes  bright 
with  amusement.  "We'd  better  get  to 
work  before  one  of  those  little  breezes 
carries  me  too  far.  There's  pen  and 
ink  on  the  table,  Mr. — my  brother  did 
not  tell  me  your  name." 

"Your  brother  and  I  met  informal 
ly,"  the  other  answered,  setting  the 
materials  in  order  for  writing.  "He 

[32] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
charged  into  me  like  a  young  steer," 
and  the  boy,  out  of  his  deep  trouble, 
laughed   delightedly.    "My   name   is 
Lincoln." 

The  young  officer  regarded  him. 
"That's  a  good  name  from  your 
standpoint — you  are,  I  take  it,  a 
Northerner?" 

The  deep  eyes  smiled  whimsically. 
"I'm  on  that  side  of  the  fence.  You 
may  call  me  a  Yankee  if  you'd  like." 

"There's  something  about  you,  Mr. 
Lincoln,"  the  young  Georgian  an 
swered  gravely,  with  a  kindly  and 
unconscious  condescension,  "which 
makes  me  wish  to  call  you,  if  I  may, 
a  friend." 

He  had  that  happy  instinct  which 
shapes  a  sentence  to  fall  on  its 
smoothest  surface,  and  the  President, 
in  whom  the  same  instinct  was  strong, 

[33] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
felt   a  quick   comradeship   with  this 
enemy  who,  about  to  die,  saluted  him. 
He  put  out  his  great  fist  swiftly. 
"Shake  hands,"  he  said.  "Friends  it 


is." 


'Till  death  us  do  part,'  "  said  the 
officer  slowly,  and  smiled,  and  then 
threw  back  his  head  with  a  gesture 
like  the  boy's.  "We  must  do  the  will," 
he  said  peremptorily. 

"Yes,  now  we'll  fix  this  will  busi 
ness,  Captain  Blair,"  the  big  man 
answered  cheerfully.  "When  your 
mind's  relieved  about  your  plunder 
you  can  rest  easier  and  get  well 
faster." 

The  sweet,  brilliant  smile  of  the 
Southerner  shone  out,  his  arm  drew 
the  boy's  shoulder  closer,  and  the 
President,  with  a  pang,  knew  that  his 
friend  knew  that  he  must  die. 

[34] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
With  direct,  condensed  question 
and  clear  answer  the  simple  will  was 
shortly  drawn  and  the  impromptu 
lawyer  rose  to  take  his  leave.  But  the 
wounded  man  put  out  his  hand. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  he  pleaded,  with  the 
imperious,  winning  accent  which  was 
characteristic  of  both  brothers.  The 
sudden,  radiant  smile  broke  again 
over  the  face,  young,  drawn  with  suf 
fering,  prophetic  of  close  death.  "I 
like  you,"  he  brought  out  frankly. 
"I've  never  liked  a  stranger  as  much 
in  such  short  order  before." 

His  head,  fair  as  the  boy's,  lay  back 
on  the  pillows,  locks  of  hair  damp 
against  the  whiteness,  the  blue  eyes 
shone  like  jewels  from  the  colorless 
face,  a  weak  arm  stretched  protect  - 
ingly  about  the  young  brother  who 
pressed  against  him.  There  was  so 

[35] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
much  courage,  so  much  helplessness, 
so  much  pathos  in  the  picture  that  the 
President's  great  heart  throbbed  with 
a  desire  to  comfort  them. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that 
man  Lincoln,  your  namesake,"  the 
prisoner's  deep,  uncertain  voice  went 
on,  trying  pathetically  to  make  con 
versation  which  might  interest,  might 
hold  his  guest.  The  man  who  stood 
hesitating  controlled  a  startled  move 
ment.  "I'm  Southern  to  the  core  of 
me,  and  I  believe  with  my  soul  in 
the  cause  I've  fought  for,  the  cause 
I'm—  he  stopped,  and  his  hand 
caressed  the  boy's  shoulder.  "But  that 
President  of  yours  is  a  remarkable 
man.  He's  regarded  as  a  red  devil  by 
most  of  us  down  home,  you  know," 
and  he  laughed,  "but  I've  admired 
him  all  along.  He's  inspired  by  prin- 

[36] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
ciple,  not  by  animosity,  in  this  fight; 
he's  real  and  he's  powerful  and"- 
he  lifted  his  head  impetuously  and  his 
eyes   flashed — "and,   by   Jove,    have 
you  read  his  speech  of  yesterday  in 
the  papers?" 

Lincoln  gave  him  an  odd  look. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I  haven't." 

"Sit  down,"  Blair  commanded. 
"Don't  grudge  a  few  minutes  to  a 
man  in  hard  luck.  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  that  speech.  You're  not  so  busy 
but  that  you  ought  to  know." 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Lincoln,  "perhaps 
I  ought."  He  took  out  his  watch  and 
made  a  quick  mental  calculation.  "It's 
only  a  question  of  going  without  my 
dinner,  and  the  boy  is  dying,"  he 
thought.  "If  I  can  give  him  a  little 
pleasure  the  dinner  is  a  small  mat 
ter."  He  spoke  again.  "It's  the  sol- 

[37] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
diers  who  are  the  busy  men,  not  the 
lawyers,  nowadays,"  he  said.  "I'll  be 
delighted  to  spend  a  half  hour  with 
you,  Captain  Blair,  if  I  won't  tire 
you." 

"That's  good  of  you,"  the  young 
officer  said,  and  a  king  on  his  throne 
could  not  have  been  gracious  in  a 
more  lordly  yet  unconscious  way.  "By 
the  way,  this  great  man  isn't  any  re 
lation  of  yours,  is  he,  Mr.  Lincoln?" 

"He's     a     kind     of     connection- 
through   my   grandfather,"    Lincoln 
acknowledged.  "But  I  know  just  the 
sort  of  fellow  he  is — you  can  say  what 
you  want." 

"What  I  want  to  say  first  is  this: 
that  he  yesterday  made  one  of  the 
great  speeches  of  history." 

"What?  "  demanded  Lincoln,  star 
ing. 

[38] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about." 
The  young  fellow  brought  his  thin 
fist  down  on  the  bedclothes.  "My 
father  was  a  speaker — all  my  uncles 
and  my  grandfather  were  speakers. 
I've  been  brought  up  on  oratory.  I've 
studied  and  read  the  best  models  since 
I  was  a  lad  in  knee-breeches.  And 
I  know  a  great  speech  when  I  see 
it.  And  when  Nellie — my  sister- 
brought  in  the  paper  this  morning 
and  read  that  to  me  I  told  her  at  once 
that  not  six  times  since  history  began 
has  a  speech  been  made  which  was  its 
equal.  That  was  before  she  told  me 
what  the  Senator  said." 

"What  did  the  Senator  say?"  asked 
the  quiet  man  who  listened. 

"It  was  Senator  Warrington,  to 
whom  my  sister  is — is  acting  as  secre 
tary."  The  explanation  was  distaste- 

[39] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
ful,  but  he  went  on,  carried  past  the 
jog  by  the  interest  of  his  story.  "He 
was  at  Gettysburg  yesterday,  with  the 
President's  party.  He  told  my  sister 
that  the  speech  so  went  home  to  the 
hearts  of  all  those  thousands  of  peo 
ple  that  when  it  was  ended  it  was  as 
if  the  whole  audience  held  its  breath 

—there  was  not  a  hand  lifted  to  ap 
plaud.  One  might  as  well  applaud  the 
Lord's  Prayer — it  would  have  been 
sacrilege.  And  they  all  felt  it — down 
to  the  lowest.  There  was  a  long  min 
ute  of  reverent  silence,  no  sound 
from  all  that  great  throng — it  seems 
to  me,  an  enemy,  that  it  was  the  most 
perfect  tribute  that  has  ever  been 
paid  by  any  people  to  any  orator." 

The  boy,  lifting  his  hand  from  his 
brother's  shoulder  to  mark  the  effect 
of  his  brother's  words,  saw  with  sur- 

[401 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
prise  that  in  the  strange  lawyer's  eyes 
were  tears.  But  the  wounded  man  did 
not  notice. 

"It  will  live,  that  speech.  Fifty 
years  from  now  American  school 
boys  will  be  learning  it  as  part  of 
their  education.  It  is  not  merely  my 
opinion,"  he  went  on.  "Warrington 
says  the  whole  country  is  ringing 
with  it.  And  you  haven't  read  it? 
And  your  name's  Lincoln?  Warry, 
boy,  where's  the  paper  Nellie  left? 
I'll  read  the  speech  to  Mr.  Lincoln 
myself." 

The  boy  had  sprung  to  his  feet  and 
across  the  room,  and  had  lifted  a 
folded  newspaper  from  the  table. 
"Let  me  read  it,  Carter — it  might  tire 
you." 

The  giant  figure  which  had 
crouched,  elbows  on  knees,  in  the 

[41] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
shadows  by  the  narrow  hospital  cot, 
heaved  itself  slowly  upward  till  it 
loomed  at  its  full  height  in  air.  Lin 
coln  turned  his  face  toward  the  boy 
standing  under  the  flickering  gas-jet 
and  reading  with  soft,  sliding  in 
flections  the  words  which  had  for 
twenty-four  hours  been  gall  and 
wormwood  to  his  memory.  And  as  the 
sentences  slipped  from  the  lad's 
mouth,  behold,  a  miracle  happened, 
for  the  man  who  had  written  them 
knew  that  they  were  great.  He  knew 
then,  as  many  a  lesser  one  has  known, 
that  out  of  a  little  loving-kindness 
had  come  great  joy;  that  he  had 
wrested  with  gentleness  a  blessing 
from  his  enemy. 

:  'Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago,' ' 
the  fresh  voice  began,  and  the  face  of 
the  dying  man  stood  out  white  in  the 

[42] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
white  pillows,  sharp  with  eagerness, 
and  the  face  of  the  President  shone 
as  he  listened  as  if  to  new  words.  The 
field  of  yesterday,  the  speech,  the 
deep  silence  which  followed  it,  all 
were  illuminated,  as  his  mind  went 
back,  with  new  meaning.  With  the 
realization  that  the  stillness  had 
meant,  not  indifference,  but  perhaps, 
as  this  generous  enemy  had  said, 
"The  most  perfect  tribute  ever  paid 
by  any  people  to  any  orator,"  there 
came  to  him  a  rush  of  glad  strength 
to  bear  the  burdens  of  the  nation. 
The  boy's  tones  ended  clearly,  delib 
erately  : 

"  'We  here  highly  resolve  that  these 
dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  that 
this  nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a 
new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  gov 
ernment  of  the  people,  by  the  people, 

[43] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
for  the  people  shall  not  perish  from 
the  earth.'  " 

There  was  deep  stillness  in  the  hos 
pital  ward  as  there  had  been  stillness 
on  the  field  of  Gettysburg.  The  sol 
dier's  voice  broke  it.  "It's  a  wonder 
ful  speech,"  he  said.  "There's  noth 
ing  finer.  Other  men  have  spoken 
stirring  words,  for  the  North  and  for 
the  South,  but  never  before,  I  think, 
with  the  love  of  both  breathing 
through  them.  It  is  only  the  greatest 
who  can  be  a  partisan  without  bitter 
ness,  and  only  such  to-day  may  call 
himself  not  Northern  or  Southern, 
but  American.  To  feel  that  your  ene 
my  can  fight  you  to  death  without 
malice,  with  charity — it  lifts  country, 
it  lifts  humanity  to  something  worth 
dying  for.  They  are  beautiful,  broad 
words  and  the  sting  of  war  would  be 

[44] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
drawn  if  the  soul  of  Lincoln  could  be 
breathed  into  the  armies.  Do  you 
agree  with  me?"  he  demanded  ab 
ruptly,  and  Lincoln  answered  slowly, 
from  a  happy  heart. 

"I  believe  it  is  a  good  speech,"  he 
said. 

The  impetuous  Southerner  went  on: 
"Of  course,  it's  all  wrong  from  my 
point  of  view,"  and  the  gentleness  of 
his  look  made  the  words  charming. 
"The  thought  which  underlies  it  is 
warped,  inverted,  as  I  look  at  it,  yet 
that  doesn't  alter  my  admiration  of 
the  man  and  of  his  words.  I'd  like  to 
put  my  hand  in  his  before  I  die,"  he 
said,  and  the  sudden,  brilliant,  sweet 
smile  lit  the  transparency  of  his  face 
like  a  lamp ;  "and  I'd  like  to  tell  him 
that  I  know  that  what  we're  all  fight 
ing  for,  the  best  of  us,  is  the  right  of 

[45] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
our  country  as  it  is  given  us  to  see  it." 
He  was  laboring  a  bit  with  the  words 
now  as  if  he  were  tired,  but  he  hushed 
the  boy  imperiously.  "When  a  man 
gets  so  close  to  death's  door  that  he 
feels  the  wind  through  it  from  a 
larger  atmosphere,  then  the  small 
things  are  blown  away.  The  bitter 
ness  of  the  fight  has  faded  for  me.  I 
only  feel  the  love  of  country,  the  sat 
isfaction  of  giving  my  life  for  it.  The 
speech — that  speech — has  made  it 
look  higher  and  simpler — your  side  as 
well  as  ours.  I  would  like  to  put  my 
hand  in  Abraham  Lincoln's— 

The  clear,  deep  voice,  with  its  hesi 
tations,  its  catch  of  weakness, 
stopped  short.  Convulsively  the  hand 
shot  out  and  caught  at  the  great  fin 
gers  that  hung  near  him,  pulling 
the  President,  with  the  strength  of 

[46] 


THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
agony,  to  his  knees  by  the  cot.  The 
prisoner  was  writhing  in  an  attack  of 
mortal  pain,  while  he  held,  unknow 
ing  that  he  held  it,  the  hand  of  his 
new  friend  in  a  torturing  grip.  The 
door  of  death  had  opened  wide  and  a 
stormy  wind  was  carrying  the  bright, 
conquered  spirit  into  that  larger  at 
mosphere  of  which  he  had  spoken. 
Suddenly  the  struggle  ceased,  the  un 
conscious  head  rested  in  the  boy's 
arms,  and  the  hand  of  the  Southern 
soldier  lay  quiet,  where  he  had  wished 
to  place  it,  in  the  hand  of  Abraham 
Lincoln. 


[47] 


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